2084-A

The family sat down, with their friends, at a table for 6 in a restaurant. The lights went out. Chris' girlfriend Maria took a handlamp out of her handbag, put it on the table and turned it on.
"This is a new way of fighting a war," said David. "They don't send the planes to bomb your houses anymore, they cut off the supply of oil and gas. That's how your country is destroyed."
"Dad, why are you always so cynical?" asked Chris.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's the way the price of food has doubled in the last 2 years. Maybe it's the fact that I had to visit 3 different shops this evening to find a loaf of bread. Maybe it's the fact that unemployment has risen to 5 million and the Bank of England won't cut interest rates."
"The lights have gone out for a few minutes," said Chris. "Too many people put the kettle on. The electricity will come back on soon. We'll still be able to have our dinner. There's no need to talk as if it's World War 3."
"That's what it is. World War 3. The Russian Federation has joined together with the Middle East to form the Moscow Pact. They're at war with NATO. This is World War 3."
"Well, if you think this is bad, what must it be like in other countries?" asked Maria.
"Actually," said Suki, one of their two Indian friends, "we think of England as a middle income country."
"It's one of the 5 wealthiest countries in the world," said Chris.
"It was once," said Suki's husband Gumpta. "Your economy hasn't grown much in the last 50 years. And if the average house costs £1 million, what's the point of being the 5th richest country in the world? You're still poor. Your country's got an awful lot of highly paid professionals living in studio flats. The Indian economy is 3 times bigger than it was 50 years ago. I know England has got a welfare state but anyone who's unemployed is either living in a hostel or living with their parents."
"India's standard of living has doubled in the last 50 years," said Suki.
"If India's such a fantastic place, why don't you go back there?" asked David.
"I work for the NHS," said Gumpta. "I'm needed here." The lights came back on. Chris passed everyone a menu.
"What are we having to eat?" he asked.

The next day Chris called to look at a flat he wanted to view. He had been offered a job in Personchester. The flat was in walking distance of a railway station 15 miles from the city centre. Chris would travel to work from his tiny commuter flat. The landlord appeared to show him around. The landlord climbed out of a car that was so old Chris wondered if it ran on petrol. It was a pre 2050 registration. In spite of the sky rocketing price of housing, this landlord didn't have any money.
"Hello, I'm Luke."
"Hello, I'm Chris. I've come to have a look at the flat." Luke unlocked the front door. It led into a tiny little room that looked like a small bedroom. There was a kitchen sink next to a fridge which had an air fryer on the top. This was obviously the kitchen.
"Do you have a communal laundry?" asked Chris.
"Too expensive. There's a tiny washing machine under the draining board next to the sink." The landlord opened the only internal door inside the flat. "Shower, wash basin and toilet," Luke announced proudly. The bathroom was the size of the completely enclosed cubicle in a unisex toilet. It was surprising how a tiny wash basin could be placed between a shower just big enough to stand up in and a standard toilet that took up half the room. Chris thought the flat was much too small but what else could he afford? He also needed to be near the railway station.
"I'm a definite yes," said Chris, trying to sound delighted. Luke pointed to a notice on the kitchen wall.
"Scan the QR code and fill the form in." Chris took out his mobile phone and scanned the QR code from the notice. The form took a few minutes to complete.

The next afternoon Chris was sitting on the settee in his parent's house. His phone rang. It was Luke.
"Hello Chris. I'm sorry. You haven't got the flat."
"Oh no. Why not?"
"You failed the affordability test."
"But I'm a university graduate. I work for NASA."
"Yes, I know, but after you repay your student loan there won't be enough money left. You failed by a narrow margin."
"Even with the student loan, I thought I was still making the minimum wage."
"This isn't a flat for people who work in Tesco's, Chris. It's a professional studio flat in the commuter belt."
"Oh well, I'll just have to find something on campbed.com." Chris entered the postcode of the place where he worked. A picture of a camp bed in someone's living room appeared on the screen. It was 5 miles from his workplace but quite close to the bus station. This was about a third of his salary. It was what he could afford. He pressed the 'Contact Landlord' button. A picture of a middle aged man appeared on the screen.
"Hello," said Chris. "I've seen the advert. I want to rent the camp bed."
"Hello. My name's Phil. Do you want to move in this afternoon? Wouldn't wait too long. I've a number of rooms. They're going fast. Pack your suitcase and call a taxi."
"Affordability test? Payment?"
"Sort that out when you get here."

Chris phoned a taxi. Should he just call an ordinary minicab? No, a minicab would take several hours to get to Personchester. Chris wanted a helicopter. The helicopter would get him there in 15 minutes. Best to get there before anyone else sees that room. Chris hurriedly packed 2 suitcases. The sound of a helicopter grew deafening as it landed outside the house. His mother gave him a bewildered look.
"Goodbye Mum, I'm going to look at a room in Personchester."
"All right, you're going to look at the room. But why the helicopter? Why not just a minicab?"
"A minicab would take hours. Got to get there in minutes, before anyone else sees it." Chris carried his suitcases into the helicopter outside. Scientists had given up trying to get a computer to understand how to drive a car. Too many unexpected parameters of busy city streets. But flying was different. Flying was logical and predictable. Motorists bringing home their shopping from supermarket car parks, emergency vehicles, pedestrians foolishly walking around wearing cordless artificial reality contact lenses while playing video games, none of these things were. AI systems couldn't understand them. But there had been drones for a very long time. They had been used by the military. They had been used by delivery companies. Now there were flying taxis. The ride in the flying taxi was exhilarating. Chris could see right across Rotherham and to the outskirts of Sheffield. Then he understood what the Bible meant when it talked about Jesus being in the wilderness. That's what the hills between Sheffield and Personchester were. The wilderness. 20 miles of nothing and nowhere. Bereft of any really interesting vegetation like forests or trees, scrubland, wilderness. And in a helicopter at a height of 3,000 feet you could see so much of it. A few minutes later came the buildings of another city. The Lancashire towns that merged together into Personchester. The helicopter landed outside the landlord's house.
"You have arrived at your destination," said a voice from the loudspeaker. "£600 please." This was the reason why flying taxis had never become a popular form of transport for tne masses. They were 3 times as expensive as a normal minicab. This was the reason why bus and taxi drivers still had jobs for life and a quarter of Ubercabs still ran on petrol. Modern technology was just too expensive. The self flying helicopter was still a rich man's plaything or a once in a lifetime luxury. Chris rang the doorbell. The landlord opened the door. Chris followed him into the house.
"You can have the camp bed in the living room for £3,000 a month or the one in the utility room for £2,000 a month. The utility room has all of our washing in it. It's clean, and it's hung up on a proper aerator."
"Living room," said Chris. Leave the utility room to someone who has less money. The landlord led him into the living room. This was a good quality camp bed, nicely made up with pillow and zip up sleeping bag prettily decorated with unisex flowers.
"This looks like a palace compared to some of the places I've seen."
"Thank you, Chris," said the landlord, professionally remembering his name. "We do our best."
"I've seen people paying £1,000 for a sleeping bag on the floordrobe, surrounded by a guy's underwear and socks." He put his two suitcases on the floor. "This is going to be my happy home."
"Your bed is worth £600, so that's a £600 deposit. 1 month's rent up front. That's £3,600 please." Chris took out his mobile phone and paid the bill.

A few days later  Chris started his new job. He sat down behind an old fashioned looking but incredibly powerful desktop computer. He couldn't believe that he was being paid to do something he enjoyed so much. Designing electronic devices that would be used by the colonists on Mars. They weren't even called astronauts anymore. There were too many. He also couldn't believe that income tax, pension and student loan were absorbing 3/4 of the money that NASA were paying him. One day he came in to work and things seemed very strange. As he arrived, he went into the unisex toilets and locked his big, completely enclosed cubicle. The light went out for just a few seconds and came on again. No problem. Just sit on the toilet and wee. You weren't allowed to stand in front of the toilet and wee anymore. It was liable to make a mess, and it was considered cisgender. Lots of things were cisgender. It just meant that if a man did that it was offensively masculine or if a woman did it, it fitted her gender stereotype. He came into the office and sat down at his desk and started the air kettle to make a cup of coffee. The same thing happened to the lights in the office. That was strange. The electricity often went off but not for a split second and then back on again. The lights came on and the air kettle boiled. Chris could see that his desk was covered by a thin layer of red sand. He walked around the room. So was everybody else's. Where had this red sand come from that was all over the room? The lights went out again. There was a white light on the ceiling in that moment of darkness. Perhaps it was an angel, if that's what angels looked like. In a loud audible voice like a female actress, the angel said, "Don't go to Mars." The lights came on again.
"Are you all right Chris?" asked Magnus. "You look awfully nervous."
"The lights keep going out."
"Well, yes they do. There's a war on. Nothing to worry about. Are you worried your system might be damaged? Don't worry Chris, I've got UPS on all the computers. Can't interrupt you in the middle of a long calculation."
"And there's -" Chris didn't want to sound stupid - "an awful lot of dust in the office."
"Maybe there is. Can't employ ladies to clean it anymore. That is so cisgender."
"You know, Magnus, I'm going to buy a dustpan and brush and a little vacuum cleaner and come in at 7 o' clock and give the place a really good clean."
"Good on you, Chris. Get the receipt for the dustpan and the vacuum cleaner. Bill them for it."

The next day Chris, true to his word, arrived at work at 7 o' clock with a vacuum cleaner and a dustpan and brush. These devices are skilled at working together to make a really dirty office clean. The red sand that was scattered everywhere had gone unnoticed among the crumbs and coffee stains of engineers who spent 13 hour shifts working and eating at their desks. After half an hour of vacuuming, the lights went out and there was an explosion. Once again, Chris could see a cloud of white light up on the ceiling and he heard the voice like an actress, "Don't go to Mars." Magnus came running into the room with a flashlight.
"Chris, it's not your fault, mate. You haven't hurt yourself, have you?"
"No, no, I just got a bit of a fright."
"You look like you've just seen a ghost. I'm not angry with you. Anyone might have done it. You plugged your vacuum into the UPS. It went off with a bang. You've tripped the electricity in the whole building. I'll find the fuse box." Magnus left without asking any questions. Chris didn't want to answer any. The government could pension you off and you could be on the sick for the rest of your life if they thought you had autism or ADHD. Magnus was a good technician. The best person who could ever do that job. Best pretend Magnus was always right. The lights came on again. Chris put the vacuum cleaner in the corner of the room and sat down at his desk.

3 o' clock in the afternoon was that time when Chris was usually so deep into his work he felt sleepy and wondered if he needed a cup of coffee and a bag of crisps to wake himself up again. Today, he was feeling that way by half past 1. He had been there 4 and a half hours. Suddenly, all thoughts of tiredness or of taking a break were abandoned. His doziness was interrupted by a terrifying noise over the loudspeakers. It was a shrieking, whistling, bubbling sound, like one of the very first modems, if anyone in the room had been old enough to remember such a thing.
"Turn that sound off," shouted Tom, holding his head in his hands. "It's making me ill."
"No, I'm recording it," said Chris.
"What do you mean, recording it?"
"It's a message from another world. I've got to record it or no one will ever know what it means." Gary burst out laughing.
"Oh, it's a message from the aliens, is it Chris? Like the red dust on our desks that came from a tropical storm that was on the weather forecast last week. But Chris thinks it is Martian dust. Don't you think it's just the Russians trying to hack into our internet?" The noise ceased. Chris uploaded his recording to the website Quantum Translate. The words, 'Identifying Codex' appeared on the screen. The system identified the codex for half an hour while Chris had a sandwich and a cup of coffee. As he was finishing his coffee the words, 'Translating first line,' appeared on the screen. Then the words, 'The weather today on Mars.' Chris set the narrator software to read out the whole of the message that was now appearing on his screen.
'Readable text. The weather today on Mars.' The technicians burst out laughing. '289 Kelvin, wind South East, 5 km per hour. Don't go to Mars. There are people on Earth who should remain where they are. The fish people from Uranus have established an alien base at the north pole. They are there with aliens from Proxima B, Sirius, Zeta Reticuli and Arcturus. The aliens will seem benevolent and helpful. They will help mankind to solve their problems. But beware of them. Their intention is to enslave the whole human race without the human race ever even knowing that they have been enslaved. They are dangerous and must not be contacted. Don't go to Mars.' The message carried on for several minutes but was drowned out by raws of laughter from everyone except Chris. It could no longer be heard.
"This no laughing matter," shouted Chris. "Don't you believe me?"
"Believe what?" asked Magnus. "This your idea of a joke, Chris. You've got some software that translates your own words into some weird noise like that. Quantum Translate would translate it back again."
"No I haven't, no I haven't. This is real. The aliens have given us a warning. We've got to stop the Mars project." The laughter stopped. Everyone was silent.
"Stop the Mars project?" asked Magnus. "People have wanted to do this for a hundred years. I remember an old pop song called 'All Through the 80s' that said we would land on Mars."
"We're not doing too badly, it's only 2084."
"But Chris, it wasn't written in the 2080s, it was written in the 1980s. Is NASA really going to stop the space program just because we might meet some dangerous aliens?"
"I think they should. The future of humanity is at stake."
"If you really want to stop the Mars project, you should go and see Dr Bucket in Room 101."